Another side of me
by nannodayo
Summary: If he had have known that the second NEWT year of Potions would essentially equal 'the most redundant and useless potions known to wizard kind', he wouldn't have taken the stupid class. DM/HG genderswap, EWE. Rating subject to change.


_A/N: No idea if there's a Dramione genderswap fic out there (there probably is, lmao), but I've been sitting on doing my own for a while. Should be writing my crossover, oops, but here's something that's new for me – haven't written like this before. Hope it's not rubbish – tell me what you think._

If he had have known that the second NEWT year of Potions would essentially equal 'the most redundant and useless potions known to wizard kind', he wouldn't have taken the stupid class. When choosing classes for his last year of Hogwarts – the one he _had _to re-do; thanks, Voldemort, you twat, that's a _whole freaking year _that I won't get back, he thought bitterly – Potions was almost required, in his mind. It was one of the only classes that he had been positive about taking – contrary to popular belief, he actually enjoyed the class, and not just because they'd almost always had Snape, who had been almost _forced _to favour him, lest he tell his father. Draco cringed internally and the utter snot-faced _brat _he'd been; it was truly embarrassing, and if he didn't need the education, he wouldn't have returned anyway, out of pure shame at the person he'd been and how he'd treated his peers.

There was one class, though, that was _really pissing him off. _Potions. Where they learned about the most redundant and useless potions known to wizard kind. He couldn't decide whether it was the class or the teacher that was cracked; since Snape had died, and Slughorn had retired more permanently, the student of Hogwarts were given a new teacher: Professor Williamson, a man in his late twenties that was far too eccentric for his own good. Too eccentric for _anyone's _good, he had often mused, as the man had a terrible habit of 'experimenting' – otherwise known as throwing ingredients together and seeing what happens, or adding 'just a dash of this, as I suspect that it may counteract the—' (it never did – nine times out of ten there was a sudden thick smoke obscuring his face, and his sentence reduced to a coughing fit). Either way, the actual potions were ridiculous.

Change skin colour, Cat-vision (everyone looks like a cat to them – he cursed the fool that considered that a _good discovery_), grow daisies out of the skull, babbling beverage (this one they'd known about for ages, but when the day came to make it, and he realised how complex it was, he was about to break down while yelling _how is this relevant_), there was a potion for everything. After several lessons of mindless brewing, Draco had realised that he could not put all of the blame on the mad new teacher, as every potion that they made was straight from the textbook – which was written by exactly the same person, and in exactly the same way as all of their previous, normal textbooks. The state of his potions knowledge had declined so far that he began the habit of going to the library and doing further study, something he'd normally be loath to unless it was for a project or some random topic of interest. He could hardly learn anything in class, after all.

One of the worst parts of the class was the fact that Williamson took it upon himself to give them a seating plan – one that had them all next to students from other houses, because 'inter-house relations have been absolutely abysmal!' and 'all this segregation will only harm you in the future!' So, to his complete and utter horror, he got to spend a whole year working with Granger.

_Granger. _By this point, he'd had almost two terms of her, and he'd been done with the affair from the first. It was bad enough that, as Head Boy and Girl, they were forced to share lodgings, a common room, and, of all things, a bathroom. _A bathroom. _Whose idiotic idea was that? What did it achieve, other than her banging on the door during the most peaceful time of his day, interrupting the glorious bliss of his morning shower? The thing about Hermione Granger, he came to realise, was that she could be annoying in almost every conceivable situation and in everything she did. In his expert opinion, if you looked up 'irritating' in the dictionary, there is a little picture of her stuck-up, self-righteous face, with its loathsome clear, soft-looking skin (which he did _not _stare at, no matter how many times you swear you saw him, thank you very much); its small, pointy, upturned nose, which she would sniff through whenever she was annoyed, outdone or proven wrong (_he was definitely not paying attention_); its maddeningly warm, soft brown eyes, that he would _not _compare to chocolate, nope, never, and, worst of all, its lips – lips he hated bitterly, lips that condemned him, lips insisting on opening whenever there was an opportunity, lips that he _did not under any circumstance think about. _Of course not. That would be silly.

He often wondered if he was paying too much attention to her, but every time he did so, he told himself firmly and clearly that he was bound to notice these kinds of things, since he lived with her and shared so many lessons with her. Yet very time he did so, this niggling, traitorous part of his brain that he wanted to _curse out of his head _told him that he didn't know as much about Parkinson, and she'd been forcing herself into his company since they were toddlers.

Blaise, the one good friend he had at Hogwarts, would constantly tease him about knowing her peculiarities, though he was often shut up with a sharp glare. More than anything else, though, he _absolutely did not have a crush on her._

He told himself that, anyway.

He told himself a lot of things.

Maybe he was lying.

The last day of classes before Christmas break started like any other would. He woke up at daybreak, like he always did – it had become a necessity if he wanted his shower _and _to get to class on time. Then he _had _his shower, which was wonderful, as always, until it was interrupted right when he was really relaxed and almost done, by an angry roommate banging on the door, _as always. _He dressed, smirked at Granger on his way out (_he would not give in to her, he was the man, he got his shower_), went down to breakfast. Tried to ignore Parkinson and not throw up while eating breakfast (he had a huge suspicion that she only came back because he did, _ew_), chatted to Blaise, whined about classes. So far so normal. After breakfast he had a free period, which he spent at the library (blessed peace and quiet!) doing a little bit of last minute charms homework, taking down notes from potions books that have _actual knowledge _in them, and reading a few things out of interest. Normal. Then he had his first class: Potions.

He walked down to the class as he would on any other Friday: casually, hands shoved in his pockets, walking just quickly enough to tell people not to talk to him. He reached the classroom just in time and practically shivering – it was still in the dungeons (some things never change), and somehow it got even more cold down there than the rest of the castle (which was already at sub-zero temperatures – whoever thought that dungeons were a good idea was an _idiot_). Then he walked into the classroom, and sat down at his seat in the front row. Presently, Professor Williamson stumbled to the front of the classroom, declaring brightly that 'we'll be doing something fun today!'

Then things stopped being quite so normal.

_A/N: I don't know if I should continue this, or if I'll have the time to – tell me if you want to read the rest, because that'll be the only reason you see it._


End file.
